Last month, the cancer took our 13-year-old beagle, Jemima. She has made a half dozen appearances on this old blog, but ne’er again. Rest in peace, sweet girl.
Instead of leaving her partner, Tonto, of seven years alone, we decided to adopt one of the bajillions of Hurricane Harvey rescue dogs that have been shipped around the state. And that is how we came across Cone Dog.
Cone Dog was in a pitiful state at the animal shelter, having endured a hatchet spay job in a prior shelter, where they neglected to give her an e-collar and she consequently chewed her sutures into a snazzy infection. So we grabbed her ziplock bag of antibiotics (I later learned it’s illegal for a shelter to hand you drugs in a plastic bag), and put her on a leash, at which point she went full on flat Superman pose meets inactive Lot’s wife and would not budge. The vet says she doesn’t know how to dog yet.
But this little one-year-old basset/Jack Russell Cone Dog knows how to chew.
And she knows how to stay at the bottom of the stairs, so her sutures don’t rip open again from leaps and bounds.
And she stinks from several animal shelters, and we can’t wash her due to the surgery, but we just love on her and let her curl up on the cushion and play with her and watch her army crawl under the coffee table excessively, presumably to scratch her itchy spay parts that she can’t reach. She’s a hot mess right now. But I think we’ll keep her.